SEE BELOW FOR THE FIRST 3 AND PART OF THE 4TH CHAPTER. TWENTY CHAPTERS IN ALL.

Utilizing diary entries, 8mm film, photos, and a keen memory, a Southern born and bred woman revisits her childhood.

It's Christmas Eve 1955, in the West End section of Birmingham, Alabama.

In discussing Santa Claus' impending visit with her baby brother, eleven-year-old Dannie Jean Beechworth causes him to cry, adding to her self-image problem. Her almost-perfect sister, thirteen and wise beyond her years, only serves to exacerbate Jean's troubles. Jean unknowingly, but frequently, demonstrates many of the abilities she thinks she lacks, but flounders often enough to consider herself a lost cause.

Take the ride of a lifetime with the eight member Beechworth family on a journey guaranteed to make the tears flow, some from sorrow, but most from hysterical laughter. A piece of work unto themselves, they are nevertheless surrounded by an unforgettable cast of characters...

Sophie, the Beechworth's king-size maid, with a king-size heart.

Doc Hobbs, the gentle-giant neighborhood druggist.

Tiny Miss Easter, scourge of the corner drugs, and original "Soup Nazi," who makes a mean nickel cherry Coke.

Roy, from the orphanage down the street, model for Maynard G Krebbs and "a firecracker waiting to pop."

Old Lady Lewis, next door neighbor, able to appear like magic, anytime a toy, or a kid, crosses her property line.

Mr. Bandana Head, long-haired shark catcher and beatnik prototype.

From the schoolhouse, where almost anything can happen (other than classwork), to the shores of the Gulf Coast, misadventures derived from high intrigue never felt so good. A canary creates havoc, and a hammerhead induces fear. A cherry bomb introduces a New Year's Bowl game. A trip to an Easter sunrise service is more than an awakening.

"Southern Shade" is a compelling, humorous, five month slice of long ago family life, guaranteed to appeal to the young at heart, both male and female.

Following is the first 20,000 words of the 105,000+ word novel. The typos are due to pasting and are NOT in the book!SouthernShadeBen F. Burton III

INTRODUCTIONIn 1956, across the winter/spring semester of sixth grade, I would celebratemy twelfth birthday. While that fact alone was hardly Grit newspaper fodder,some of what I encountered during the period might draw interest from thosewho have sunk into depression lower than whale poop, risen to greater heightsthan Hillary on Everest, or felt more disgraced than the Chicago Tribune’s editorsafter the “Dewey Defeats Truman” headline – all while rarely straying more thanfive blocks from their own front door. One need not be a world traveler to travelthe world – of emotions.I was a flighty innocent, on the cusp of puberty, living in what shouldhave been an ideal age for making that sometimes difficult transition frompreadolescence into pubescence as simple as possible. I was perfectly happy inthe deepest sense of the word, but was often at odds with myself over little thingsthat seemed important at the time. My weightiest problems stemmed from aninability to harness my out-of-control tongue. “Think before you speak” was anaxiom I had not yet latched onto.Scarecrow, a character in my favorite book, The Wonderful Wizard of Oz,became my inspiration. Being absent a brain seemed preferable to having onestuck in malfunction mode. At the very least, brainlessness provided a handyexcuse for my frequent oral bloopers. My older sister, Irene, defined perfectionin everything that mattered – beauty, scholarship, and personality, making myaverage grades and less than stunning appearance seem all the more lacking.Nevertheless, and without the flimsiest evidence to substantiate my belief,I felt certain my time was coming – that I would become like Irene, or, as closeas I could get, given my limited resources. Physical beauty was a stretch. Mybecoming an honor student was an even greater stretch. But, a winning personalitywas within my reach. I was determined to open my ears, close my mouth, anddevelop a brain to make Scarecrow proud. Incorporating those simple acts intomy daily life was a much taller order than I could have imagined.

THE ERAVillage Creek, forty feet wide in spots, coiled its way through our WestEnd community of Birmingham, Alabama. Beyond the creek were three setsof railroad tracks. Across the tracks was a black neighborhood. In some ways, Isuppose those tracks might well have been forty miles across.My two brothers, along with some friends, occasionally made the slipperyvoyage across Village Creek, hopping from one wobbly stone to the next, tryingto avoid waterlogged sneakers. Usually, they crossed for one purpose – to engagein rock battles, and rocks of an ideal size and weight for throwing were plentifulalong the tracks. Had true anger been at work, they probably would not have hadan unspoken understanding that only one rock at a time could be airborne. Eventhough no one broke that rule, the day came when a small, black kid was struckin the head, causing an immediate cease-fi re, for that was not meant to happen.Following a brief hesitation, everyone rushed to the fallen child, except for acouple of white boys, including the one who had launched the wayward stone.Those two lit out across the creek in a full sprint, making no effort to stone-hop.When the youngster sat up, looking dazed, one of my brothers told him tocount backward from a hundred to “check his thinking cap.” He said he wasn’tbut six and the only way he knew to reach a hundred was by going forward intens. Without hesitation, he did so.“Ten-twenty-thirty-forty-fifty-sixty-seventy-eighty-ninety and one hundred.Tar baby. Here come Petey!” Everyone agreed; despite the rising knot on hisforehead, Petey seemed none the worse for wear. After tossing around a fewideas, the boys concocted what they considered the perfect alibi to account forthe child’s misfortune, a tall tale having nothing to do with rock battles.The boys sent Petey home and quickly rehearsed their plan. Presently, Petey’smother emerged from the stand of trees bordering the tracks and demanded anexplanation for her son’s injury. Though the boys scoured the area in earnest,some resorting to getting on their hands and knees, no one was able to producethe piece of fallen meteorite that had supposedly done the damage. With sadfaces all around, a permanent truce was declared. For many years thereafter, noboys – black or white – ventured across the natural border.

Aside from my parents' employees, I had little contact with “colored” folks.The television show, Amos ‘n Andy, was my gateway to the black community, butkids were seldom featured on the program. I often wondered what life was likefor the children across Village Creek. Nevertheless, I had more than a graciousplenty to deal with on my own side of that border.

“Dannie Jean Beechworth, I declare!” From my mother’s tone, I knew shewas about to engage me in another of her one-sided conversations. No way couldshe see me at the back door, not from her position behind the kitchen sink. But,Dad said she had eyes in the back of her head, so it wasn’t much of a stretch toassume she could also see around corners.“Be sure to wipe your filthy feet before you come traipsing into my kitchen.Out running all over creation through dog poop and Lord knows what all else.I’ll swanee, young’un, I don’t know what to think about you sometimes. Betteryet, now that I am thinking about it, take off your tennie shoes and drop ‘em onthe side of the steps. I’m settin’ up some new rules. We’re gonna start doin’ likethem Chinese people. They take their shoes off ever’ time before they go insidetheir houses... uhhh, believe they call ‘em ‘haciendas.’ Wonder how come nobodyelse does that. It’s a rilly great idea… don’t ever have to worry about moppin’ uptracks. I’ve also heard tell they don’t have dog poop in their yards either, because…well, just never you mind about that right now.“The point is, I don’t wanna hafta be cleanin’ up ever’ time I turn around.You’re old enough to pitch in on more of the heavy work, just like your sister, Irene.What’re you, eleven now, baby?” My mother, known to her brood as “Mama,”had a curious habit of sprinkling endearments amidst a tirade.“Yes’m. Eleven years, three months, and two weeks,” I said, while untyingmy shoe laces.“Bless my soul, with six of you kids, it’s nearly ‘bout impossible to keeptrack. Anyhow, I was down on my knees scrubbin’ floors and wipin’ walls athalf your age. By the way, sweetie, I need you to go round up your brothers andsisters. They’re pro’bly scattered out from Village Creek to Hobbses Drugstore,and I’m not gon’ be able to call ‘em home today. Blistered a whistle finger onthat hot coffee pot this mornin’. Supper’s gon’ be ready in about an hour and Idon’t want y’all comin’ in here lookin’ and smellin’ like little guttersnipes. YourDaddy’ll be home in a little bit, and he just might tan all y’alls hides.”Anyone happening through our well-traveled back alley might have takenMama’s warnings seriously, but I was used to her periodic rants, which were,typically, all bark. Even so, it was best to let her speak until the well ran dry, onceshe got going. And, listening closely was a must, for she would often follow upwith a pop quiz. Her bark could get a little toothy if she caught us daydreamingduring her lectures. Dad hardly ever raised a hand to any of his children, andcertainly not over trifles. We had to make an intentional step beyond the invisibleline of doom before Dad’s warning turned into a warming – of our breeches. But,that didn’t prevent Mama from treating Dad’s imminent arrival as a potentialhealth hazard. More often than not, it worked.Mama continued, “Now... you been listening to me, Dannie Jean? What’sa Chinese house called, hmmm?”“I don’t rightly know, Mama, but it sure ain’t ‘hacienda.’ Them’s houses upin Mexico. I learned that in jog’raphy class last semester.” I was re-shoed, readyto begin the roundup, but I knew, as soon as it left my mouth, how my remarksounded. I held my breath, fingers crossed. If Mama thought I was getting smartwith her, she could return to the warpath. Luckily, I was soon able to exhale.Measuring her words, Mama said, “Well, I’ll sewanee. Okay, then. But...uhhh, Mexico’s not up, baby. It’s down... down south. Go on, now. Scoot!”Born in Anniston, Alabama, in 1919, Mama was as country as CalhounCounty cotton. A blue-eyed brunette, at almost five-foot-nine, she was a hairtaller than Dad, and that “hair” made him uneasy, especially when Mama worehigh heels. But, my, how those heels did wonders for Dad’s posture. For years,Mama was a typical barefoot and pregnant domestic goddess. Dad liked it thatway – the “barefoot” part, that is.By 1955, the Korean conflict was behind us. World War II had become adistant memory, though Dad was badly injured in that war. His bouts with lowback pain were the result of a German bayonet thrust. Another “wound” hadn’tanything to do with hand-to-hand combat, but was acquired during a furlough inFrance, where Dad consented to some very decorative tattoos. The buxom bustof Mama on the underside of his right forearm and “Hitler’s Nightmare” on hisleft, caused Dad considerable uneasiness as we got older. I pitied him when weattended my brothers’ Little League games in the afternoon. Before the first pitchwas thrown, Dad’s long-sleeve shirts were ringed with sweat. His tattoos became“exhibit A” when he cautioned us regarding the hazards of youthful indiscretions.Dad was in the heating business, earning more than most breadwinners in ourarea, though any able-bodied person could make a decent living wage, given thereasonable cost-of-living. Taxes were about as low as the crime rate. Newspapersin stands were there for the taking. The ten-cent receptacle beside the papers reliedon the honor system. Almost without fail, that system was honored.The local milkman, spiffy in his white uniform and black-billed white cap,served us three times weekly. Sunday, Tuesday, and Thursday nights, Mamawould set out the returnable bottles with a wish list for the next day. Sometimes,one of us would modify Mama’s note to include something we rarely got –chocolate milk. Those glass bottles produced a far milkier flavor than did thewax-lined cartons sold in supermarkets. We kids reasoned that special cowsproduced it that way – fudgy and ready to drink, no Cocoa Marsh needed.Truck farmers roamed our streets in pickups, except for one old black manwho, still clinging to the vestiges of an even slower-paced past, canvassed thearea in his mule-drawn wagon. The trail of droppings left by his mules was acommon sight. When the wagon finally vanished, it saddened me, for I enjoyedthe singular echo of the mule’s unshod hooves clopping lazily along our tree-lined,asphalt roads. As to the droppings, well, that was a horse of a different color.Our zany neighborhood peddler, Tony the Banana Man, was world-famous,in our tiny world. In his operatic tenor voice, he would belt out a tune announcingwhat produce he was carrying on any given day, something like, “Oh, peaches-melon-i-ooo, fresh turnip greens and potati-oooes, got papaya, green beans,and mang-ie-ooooes … toooodayyyy.” He claimed to have been trained at theCantaloupe Academy of Opera, and we never doubted Mr. Tony. His heavy Italianaccent added credibility to whatever he said. Although produce was his stock-in-trade,Mr. Tony was never in short supply of goodies for the kids. Easily the mostsought after kid’s treat on Mr. Tony’s truck was Chum Gum – three sticks for apenny. Even though the flavor only lasted a couple of minutes, for anyone witha sweet tooth, it was a delightfully tasty two minutes, after which you might justas well have been chewing on a cud.From a young age, I grew wistful over changes in the status quo, whetherit was the closing of the local Green Spot Orangeade bottling plant or the lastHowdy Dowdy Show. I was sixteen-years-old when Buffalo Bob signed off andClarabelle the Clown spoke for the first time. Clarabelle’s heartrending words,“Good-bye, kids,” left me in tears.I do not subscribe to living in the past, but I do find that occasional mind tripsinto my distant childhood never fail to buoy my spirit in these – my quieter,grayer days. So, to paraphrase the narrator of The Lone Ranger television show,“Return with me to those thrilling days of yesteryear.”Very clear memories click into focus on a cold December night, in 1955...

CHAPTER 1On Christmas Eve, my five-year-old brother, Danny, sat up in bed andpleaded his case while I fluffed up his down pillow. “Dan Jean, how’m I s’posedto get to sleep when my stomach feels like it’s got a buncha elves jumpin’ aroundon pogo sticks? You don’t reckon ol’ Santa Claus’ll be upset about those applesme and Zack borried outta the Fink’s pear trees last summer, do ya? They don’tnever pick ‘em, so all they do’s fall off and rot, but I guess you might could callit stealin’ just the same. Zack shoulda asked first. He’s older and oughta knowbetter. Anyhow, if I was Santa, I bet I’d overlook a little kid like me takin’ wormyol’ apples. Wouldn’t you, Dan Jean?”If “Dan Jean” was being addressed, it was Danny who was talking. By then,everyone called me “Jean,” which I much preferred and sometimes demanded.The ones who prevented unanimity on that touchy subject were Danny and Mama,who called me “Dannie Jean.” My first name was given me to honor my Dad,in the event no boys found their way into our sizable branch of the Beechworthfamily. As I got older, the “Dannie” part of my name drew some teasing from mymale classmates. My parents insisted I was overreacting when I kicked a coupleof the ridiculing boys’ rear-ends over the matter, but I felt it was the easiest wayto make a clear point: My being a tomboy did not give anyone the right to referto me as “Tom,” or “Dannie,” either, for that matter.“I don’t believe y’all grabbed them apples outta pear trees, bud,” I said,grinning. Danny caught his mistake and giggled, his brilliant, blue eyes glowingand the dimple in each cheek showing. Danny was a bona fide prodigy who hadbegun reading at age three, and scrutinizing everything under the sun even earlier.Fortunately, he was grounded, and blessed with a terrific sense of humor, thoughhis extraordinary wit seemed totally inadvertent most of the time.“Heck, I don’t think Santa Claus is gonna mind about them stupid applesanyhow, Danny. Don’t forget, you push-mowed the Fink’s side yard free ofcharge right after that, and they didn’t even know about them apples. I’m not sureMr. Fink believed your answer when he asked why you were cuttin’ his grass.Remember? Instead of tellin’ him you were in trainin’ just in case the Olympicshad push mowin’ when you grow up, you might ought to have said you werejust bein’ a good Samarian.“Ain’t it spo’sed to be ‘Samaritan,’ Dan Jean?”“Oh... sure, that’s what I meant to say. ‘Samaritan.’ Anyhow, that fort youbuilt outside from Wheaties boxes might’ve convinced him you wanted to be asports star.” Danny sat up, smiled, and flexed his little biceps. Instead of endingthe conversation on that happy note, I could not leave well enough alone.“Still, I think I’d be more worried about the day you ate nearly that wholebowl of banana puddin’, and when Mama ‘n them got home you said two maskedmen broke in and wolfed most of it down before they heard the siren.” No soonerhad I said that than I whacked my head with both palms.Danny’s bottom lip curled downward, giving advance notice that tears wereabout to fall. Already on edge over the crab apple in a pear tree caper, the last thinghe needed to be reminded of on Christmas Eve was another misdeed. Two failedattempts at calming him led me to suggest that Santa had gotten his big bellyfrom sneaking “nanner puddin’,” as Danny called it. I made headway with thatone, but he was still sobbing, so I reached out and got his nose with my thumb,settling him down further. At that point, I decided to pull out all the stops – tuggingon my ears, sticking out my tongue, crossing my eyes, and making silly sounds.Danny laughed and said, “You ought not do them cross-eyes, Dan Jean.Mama says your face might freeze that way if the wind blows, or something.”“Not a whole lotta wind in here, kiddo,” I laughed, grateful for the moodchange. That I might have ruined the magic of his evening, that indescribablewonder brought on by the anticipation of Santa’s impending visit, was enoughto make me wish I had never learned to speak. The Mickey Mouse hands onDanny’s clock read ten until eight when he began to nod. Though Mama hadtucked him in earlier, I readjusted his covers, and gave him a peck on his forehead.“Good night, little buddy. Snuggle in tight and don’t let the bedbugs bite.”“Night-night, Dan Jean. Boy, I’m excitin’ thinkin’ about how Santa Clausis gonna be in my own house in a little bit!”“Yep. Betcha he has an extra large bag marked ‘Danny’ on his sleigh, too.Night, Danny.” I flicked off the light and followed the delectable scents of Mama’sChristmas feast preparation down the long hall toward the den next to the kitchen.Built in the late eighteen hundreds, when sturdy was evidently the onlyknown means of construction, our home on Freemont Avenue was one of thelargest in an area abundant with huge houses. The enclosed front porch, roomyenough to accommodate half the kids in the neighborhood on rainy summer days,was a welcome sanctuary where we played everything from Monopoly to dodgeball. We dined in the enormous kitchen; Dad turned the adjacent dining roominto a back den, where we played board games and watched television. Raidingthe icebox was convenient from there, too. Televisions were expensive and fewnearby homes had one. Most Saturday mornings, we had a peanut gallery full ofkids watching our black and white Philco in the back den with us.The concrete driveway beside our house ran from the street to our garage,and consisted of two tracks with a grass median between them. Mama nurtureda prize-winning flower garden on either side of it. Though the driveway was apopular game site, no activity was allowed which might harm Mama’s flowers.The lanes were ideal for bowling, unless it was gusty out, when we’d often getstrikes without rolling the ball. To counter the effect of the wind, we punched ahole in the top of each plastic pin and funneled sand inside, but once they wereheavy enough to stand up in the breeze, the plastic ball wouldn’t knock themover. We borrowed a neighbor’s shot put and that did the trick; the pins toppled.Unfortunately, they also ruptured, releasing the sand. Outdoor bowling had asmany thorns as the roses on either side of Beechworth Lanes.“Hurry up and close the door to the igloo, please!” Mama yelled from thekitchen, as thirteen-year-old Irene rushed into the back den, breathless, her teethchattering. Irene was sealed tighter than Mama’s homemade strawberry jam,her cheeks and nose the same hue as that delicacy. Several kids from our churchhad been Christmas caroling at homes in the vicinity. Their plan to sing for threehours was scrubbed when a chilling wind kicked up in the thirty degree weather,inducing a hasty, numb-fingered money count, after which they scattered for theirrespective homes. Still, in less than ninety minutes, their outing netted thirteendollars for the orphanage two doors down from us.That orphanage, a run-down, gray-shingled duplex, housed up to three kids.Fifty-something Ma Boone was caregiver. Each Christmas, Dad slipped hermoney for presents, more than she could afford on her government stipend. Twoof the three orphans seldom stayed long enough for us to learn their names, nevermind becoming friends. Always young, no more than seven or eight, they wereconsistently adopted within weeks, if not days. Twelve-year-old Roy Wilson,one of those boys who got a close-up look at my bad side after making fun ofmy name, was the only long-term child resident. His parents died in a car wreckwhen he was seven. Roy survived, but recurring bouts with depression causedpotential adoptive parents to shun him. Roy never was adopted, though I’m notcertain he wanted to be. Around our house he was treated like a family member,which must have agreed with him, as often as he showed up.Irene, with her exotic looks, was an easy target for envy. She had oliveskin, perfectly arched brows, and ash gray, feline eyes – unlike the rest of uslily-white, blue-eyed Beechworths. I nicknamed her “Lefty.” She was the onlyportsider in our extended family of over sixty children and adults. I kidded herabout being adopted. Irene did not appear to notice that she was in a league ofher own. I certainly did. But, even though occasions arose when I blamed herfor my problems, I could not stay angry with her, for she was my only reliablesource for advice regarding those very problems.With the three younger ones, including twenty-month-old Susie and almostfive-year-old Pammy, asleep on that Christmas Eve, we didn’t have to whisperconcerning the secret of Saint Nick. Brother Zack wondered aloud when Dadwas “gonna bring in the loot.”Zack was not a prodigy, but a mastermind – of mischief, the proverbialaccident waiting to happen. But, like Danny, he was so cute he could charm abumble bee out of a bloom. Zack had a multitude of evenly spaced freckles onhis face, which Irene and I sometimes took advantage of to engage in a friendlygame of connect the dots. Zack was not smitten with that particular pastime.Irene’s eyes lit up like the fireplace she was hovering in front of when Mamawalked in with a serving tray containing three tacky, ceramic cups of piping hotchocolate, thick with melted marshmallows. We had won the gray and orange two-tonecups the previous October while pitching pennies at the State Fair. Someonein our family developed a technique to help us beat the odds at the “unfair,” asDad called it, since winning, while obeying the rules, was almost impossible.Spitting on a penny creates an adhesive. But, as Dad said, “Turnabout is fair play.”While drinking our cocoa, we tried to guess the contents of gifts under thetree, something which would remain in doubt until morning. When our cups wereempty, Zack and I used our fingers to scrape off the last flecks of marshmallowcream. Irene shook her head and said that our “behavior was a sorry sight.” Zackused her remark as a springboard into an idea for a game.“Hey, yeah. Good thinking, Irene. It is a great time for a game of Sorry.Lemme run get it.” Irene crunched her eyebrows and grinned.The only time I won at Sorry was when I played alone. I tried every colortoken, anything I could think of to change my luck, but nothing did. I was baffl ed,since the game requires almost no skill. But, by then, losing wasn’t really a bigdeal to me – not after we got those Elvis records.If the turntable on the hi-fi was spinning, songs by the future “King of Rockand Roll” were usually filling the air. Each time our short stack of five discs – theones Elvis did for Sun Studios – finished playing, one of us would hop up toflip them over. It’s a wonder we didn’t wear the records out within a week, eventhough we took good care of them. If the discs weren’t revolving, they were intheir sleeves resting safely in our cedar chest.As Mama was winding down her baking, she told us to change the music tosomething more appropriate for Christmas Eve. For once, we agreed with her;“Good Rockin’ Tonight” didn’t exactly inspire feelings of chestnuts roasting onan open fire. The fresh aromatic scent of our large, heavily-decorated cedar treemade the atmosphere especially receptive to seasonal music. Irene got up to put ona Bing Crosby album and said she wished Elvis would make a Christmas record.Mama said that the boy was probably a heathen who didn’t know the meaningof the word. Eventually though, Mama changed her tune about his recordings.When she got word of his first Christmas album release two years later, Mamaput it on Santa’s list. She enjoyed the album as much as we did, especially thehymns – “Peace in the Valley” and “I Believe.”Dad came in from assembling toys in the garage and said it was time tohit the sack, which was fine with me; I was losing again. “The Man,” Dad’spseudonym for Santa, would not come until all Beechworth kids were beddeddown. Irene, Zack, and I were just as thrilled as the younger ones, since “TheMan” remained generous despite our misfortune of outgrowing him. Christmaswas Dad’s favorite time of year. He got the biggest kick out of seeing a child’sexcitement over Santa. That aside, Dad never let us lose sight of the true meaningof Christmas – a celebration of the birth of our savior, Jesus Christ.A couple of weeks earlier, Dad had purchased an eight millimeter camera.His long desire to have a permanent record of Christmas morning would finallybe realized. Dad decided to film a pre-Christmas rehearsal to “get the bugs out.”I and my siblings proved what a bunch of hams we were, mugging the camera,mercilessly, in our motion picture debut. Dad picked up the developed film theweekend before Christmas and Mama prepared several large bowls of popcornfor the screening. Kids showed up from near and far to watch. Song of the Southcould not have generated any greater expectations, primarily because the screeningwould be the first time for any of us to view a film outside the theater. Homemovies had a reputation for boredom – family members excluded. Dad avoidedthat problem by including our friends in the movie. If only he had left me out....That December afternoon put another bruise on my already fragile ego. Thecamera was unkind to me; my hair was parted on the wrong side and my eyeswere nestled too close to my nose. I looked as peculiar as I sounded when we gota tape recorder the previous Christmas and, for the first time, I heard my voiceas others did. On that occasion, I took a solemn oath of silence for life, holdingtrue to my pledge for the better part of the afternoon.It was Zack’s first year of Santa awareness and he wanted to play on, butIrene persuaded him to give it up. The sooner we got to sleep, the sooner “TheMan” would show up. Before heading to the bedroom, I gathered and returnedthe Elvis records to the safety of the cedar chest, and thought about the odd waywe had come to possess the discs six weeks earlier.*Dad’s brother, Zackery, perished at the Battle of the Bulge, leaving behinda wife and six-year-old daughter – Aunt Vernice and Myrtle Mae. A few yearsafter Uncle Zack’s death, Vernice suffered a nervous breakdown; she spent herremaining years at Bryce’s Hospital in Tuscaloosa. Myrtle Mae was taken in byrelatives who moved to Tuscaloosa to be near Vernice. After that we only sawMyrtle in the summertime down at Tannehill State Park, home to the coldestwater in Alabama and a perfect spot for a summer outing. On arriving, we usuallydropped a couple of watermelons into the icy creek. We spent hours of frigid funswinging from a thick rope tied to a tree limb over the deepest part of the LittleCahaba River. Dad said it was “a scene right out of a Samuel Clements novel.”Myrtle Mae had a special place in Dad’s heart, despite questionablejudgments on her part as regards ladylike behavior. She dropped out of school atsixteen and moved to Memphis, finding work as a waitress. Along with anotheryoung waitress, she leased a small house. Within months, Myrtle’s roommatemoved away. With little money, and a broken furnace, Myrtle knew of onlyone person to turn to. She dashed off a letter to Dad, who immediately madepreparations for the trip, along with his helper, Will.Will worked for Dad for twenty years. From the start, Will called Dad “Mr.Dandy.” We never knew why. Dad was fine with it, a special name used onlyby Will and his wife, Sophie. Will was a strapping man, his flawless skin a rich,creamy mocha color. Dad told of the time his truck was stuck in a mud hole after arainstorm. Together, they unloaded the heaviest items from the back of the pickup.Then, while Dad steered, Will lifted the back end of the truck and pushed themout. Will had removed his shirt to avoid getting it mussed. Through the rear viewmirror, Dad saw Will’s neck muscles and shoulders straining, the sight remindinghim of the muscle-building ads featured in the back of comic books. Formidablephysique notwithstanding, Will was as kind and gentle a man as I ever met.When he lost his eye after being struck during a BB gun battle as a teenager,Will perceived it as a message from the Lord, admitting, “I was headin’ righton down de road to no good, but I been walkin’ de straight and narrow wif deAlmighty evah since dat day, keepin’ my good eye focused on de things datreally mattahs.” Something that obviously mattered to Will was a sense ofhumor. One fine, spring day Will and I were sitting in the backyard on someorange crates playing Go Fish, when he popped his eye out and showed it tome. I ran screaming into the house while he jumped from the crate, doubledover in convulsive laughter. Inside, Mama stood at her observation post behindthe kitchen sink laughing almost as hard. I never did locate the punch line to thatunseemly encounter.Will’s wife, Sophie, was our part-time maid. With Mama and Dad’s approval,Sophie treated us like her own kids, including doling out punishments. Theexcessive bulk she packed on her five-and-a-half foot frame would make flightseem a viable option if we got her dander up. In truth, running from Sophie wasnot wise. When she gave chase, her body would jiggle and shift in a hundreddifferent directions, like bacon looks when it is frying. Even though the visualwas one of ungainliness, Sophie was quick, and the end result meant being caughtwith more to answer for than the original offense, as she was not fond of givingchase. Evenhanded in her use of a switch, Sophie would reach for one of thosedreaded lengths of shrubbery only when we undeniably deserved some unfriendlypersuasion. Debates rage over whether capital punishment is a deterrent to majorcrime. I can state with complete certainty that Sophie’s switches were a majordeterrent to minor crime, and we rarely gave her reason to reach.When Sophie broke out a certain platter – a gaudy thing Zack won with atrick penny – we knew a treat was in our immediate future. To agitate us, shewould place the empty platter on the coffee table in the den. Soon after, she wouldbegin the baking process, dispersing an aroma throughout the house like mannafrom Heaven. Eventually, Sophie would retrieve the platter and fill it with hot teacakes, toasty-crisp on the outside, with a soft, chewy center. When she placed itback on the table, we converged like a sleuth of starving bear cubs.Memphis was a much longer drive in those days, as the Southern interstatesystem lagged decades behind that of our Northern counterparts; the aftereffectsof the Civil War were still being felt. Sophie fried chicken gizzards and Mamapacked a half-dozen sandwiches for the long trip. Dad, in his “Cat” hat, and Will,in his fleece-lined aviator’s cap, backed slowly down our drive in Dad’s olivegreen, Ford pickup, with Zack and Danny on the running boards. Dad stoppedat the sidewalk to let the boys off and turned up Freemont before stopping again.Rolling his window halfway down, Dad yelled, “Remember the code!”Danny responded, “Okay, Daddy, remember the Alamo!”The “code” was something Dad devised to avoid long distance fees. BeforeSouthern Bell had competition, telephone usage charges were exorbitant. Fromout-of-town jobs, Dad would call, person-to-person, asking for Dan Beechworth.Whoever answered would tell the operator Mr. Beechworth wasn’t in. Dad wouldpropose calling again at a specific hour, which, naturally, coincided with the timehe expected to return home.Danny’s Alamo remark broke some of the tension surrounding the start ofthe potentially hazardous trip. A light sleet was falling from the November sky asDad headed toward Highway 78. We stood shoulder-to-shoulder, waving, untilthe pickup disappeared into the deepening, early morning mist.That night, Mama tucked in Danny and emerged from his room with afurrowed brow, saying, “I didn’t expect your Daddy would get back home tonight,Dannie Jean, but I’d a sworn he would’ve at least called by now.”“Well, you know it can take all day, sometimes, if everything don’t goright,” I said.“I know. Just wanna talk to him’s all. Did y’all get your homework done yet?”Irene stepped into the den and said, “Mama! That’s the third time you’veasked. For Heaven’s sake, we finished our homework over two hours ago.Besides, it isn’t like you’re going to talk to Daddy when he calls, anyway.”Pointing to Irene and lightly shaking her index finger, Mama said, “Well,Irene, you know what I mean.” She quickly pulled her hand back and pressedher palm to her chest. “I’m sorry, baby. It just isn’t like your Daddy to keep mewaitin’, though I’m positive they’re okay. Remind me to tell him to call when hegets to an out of town job, instead of piddlin’ around ‘til he finishes up. I’m notbroodin’ about him and Will gettin’ hurt on the job... just the road.”Uncertain of how to deal with Mama’s concern, I looked to Irene forguidance. She motioned for me to follow her. Once we were beyond Mama’searshot, Irene asked if Mama had used the phone during the evening. After I said,“You’re kiddin’,” she said, “Good,” and whispered her plan. We returned to theden where Mama was dusting a perfectly clean lampshade.“Goodness gracious, Mama. You won’t believe what happened. I wasscuffling around with Zack earlier and one of us must have knocked the extensionphone off the hook. No wonder Daddy hasn’t called; the line’s been tied up!” Itwas a blatant lie, but motivated by good intentions, and would easily qualify asa white lie, using Dad’s standards.“Irene, I’ll swanee. You’ve got to be more careful. I might expect somethin’like that from Dannie Jean, but certainly not from you. One thing’s sure, though.It’s a big relief.” I knew Mama was right, but it still hurt to hear.“Sorry, Mama. Just one of those things, was all. But, hey, I’m just as big aklutz as Jean. No, wait... That isn’t what I meant, Jean. I meant... oh, boy.” Irenelooked at me with a hint of desperation. The sight of her squirming brought aslow smile to my lips.“I’m just saying we all have our klutzy moments. If you live and breathe,you’re bound to klutz things up from time to time. Into every life a little klutzmust fall.” The three of us laughed. I had just witnessed Irene being orally klutzyintentionally, in an endearing effort to make me feel better. It worked. I thoughtit noble of my sister to concoct a lie, making herself the villain, in order to calmMama, while gently reprimanding her for being too harsh on me. How I longedto have one ounce of Irene’s common sense and sensibility.Irene’s fabrication did the trick. The tension vanished from Mama’s face.She took a seat for the first time since supper. Within five minutes the phonerang; Irene grabbed it.*Dad and Will were hungry when they reached Whitehaven, the Memphissuburb where Myrtle Mae lived. The gizzards and sandwiches had long sincevanished. A newly-opened Dairy Freeze saved the day. They stopped forcheeseburgers and hot coffee before proceeding to Myrtle’s home.A pretty bleached-blond answered Dad’s rap on the flimsy wooden door.From her aqua-colored eyes and slightly tilted nose, to her glowing, easy smile,Myrtle Mae had Uncle Zack’s features. After salutations and small talk, Dad andWill got busy with the installation, which took until well after dark. Myrtle offeredDad a twenty dollar bill, but he wouldn’t accept it. She insisted on returning hisgenerosity somehow. She snapped her fingers and said, “Wait, I’ve got it!” Myrtleretrieved a handful of records, done by a little known artist named Elvis Presley,and told Dad to “bring them back to Jean and Irene.”We later learned that the shotgun shanty Myrtle Mae rented was a near replicaof Elvis’ birth home in Tupelo. Additionally, it was located only one mile froman estate named “Graceland.” Long before Elvis bought the mansion eighteenmonths later, Myrtle Mae had left Whitehaven and was back in school.Dad drove about six miles to a dingy roadside motel he had noticed earlier.As they approached, a disagreement over sleeping arrangements arose. Willclaimed he would be fine sleeping in the truck’s cab, but Dad would have noneof it. Fearing there would be no room for a black man in the inn, however, Dadlet Will out half a block from the motel entrance. When he rang the bell on thedesk in the tiny lobby and a black man emerged, Dad was taken aback. From hishiding place behind a large pine, Will took in the sight and broke for the lobby,giggling and praising God for his kindness.Dad handed the owner four dollars for the room. As they pulled to the rear,Dad said, “You know what, Will? I just happened to think. What if that gentlemanhad said you were welcome, but I’d have to carry my business somewhere else?Wouldn’t that have been a lick?”“Yassuh. You be right dere, Mr. Dandy. Dat woulda been one for da ages.Talkin’ ‘bout de colored man, he can go ‘head on an’ stay, but dis heah white fella,he gon’ hafta git’em and git!” Though loud, their laughter wasnot substantive enoughto erase their knowledge regarding the sad facts of racial inequities in the Deep South.*After each of them had a hot shower, Dad said, “Whooo! It’s downrightchilly in this room, Will. And to think you were talking about sleepin’ in the cab.”“It is a might on de cool side at dat. What say we reports da problem tonight,den show up in da lobby come mornin’ time all set to go to work?”Chuckling, Dad said, “I like your capitalistic attitude there, old soul. But ifit’s all the same to you, I’d just as soon put this place in the rearview mirror quickas we can. Now, how ‘bout we say our prayers and call it a night?”“Sounds fine by me, but ain’t you forgettin’ ‘bout sompin’, Mr. Dandy? Youknow... Da call. De code.”“Good night, Nellie, Will. How could I forget that? Miss Julia’s gonna shootme, for sure!” Dad parted the ragged curtains and saw a pay phone across thedimly lit parking lot. He slipped back into his work clothes and, after checking hispockets, said, “Will, can you loan me a nickel? I’m slap outta change.” Will forkedover the token and Dad called home, saying he would try again at lunchtime.When Dad pulled in at noon the next day, Mama rushed out to greet him,apologizing for the busy signal. Dad had no idea what she meant, but decidednot to ask. Late that afternoon, he cornered Irene and me while Mama was fixingsupper.“Okay, girls. What is this deal with the telephone your Mother mentioned?”Irene smiled at him, winked at me, and said, “Well, Daddy, let’s just say thephone wasn’t really busy, but I was... covering your rear end! And I’m going toleave it there.” Dad did an about face and quietly left our room.*As we turned down the heavy quilt on Irene’s bed, the screen door slammedand we heard Dad say, “Be careful, Julia.” I felt a tingle running through my belly.Santa was in the building.The unusually cold weather, made warm and cozy by our steam radiators,was sandman-made for sleeping. The anticipation of rising early to see ouryounger siblings, eyes aglow at what Santa had brought them, was a vicariouslylovely feeling in itself, but we had selfish motives, also. Irene was especiallykeyed-up over something special she had asked for but didn’t figure to get. Imuch preferred surprises, mainly because I didn’t want someone with my lousytaste picking out presents for me.We had separate beds, but occasionally slept together in Irene’s, usually outof fright, the aftershock of a scary movie, television show, or one of Dad’s horrortales. Sometimes, though, we liked to snuggle into her bed for no other reasonthan a desire to share the exhilaration; Christmas Eve was the optimum time forthat emotion. Our pillows felt fluffier than usual that night. The freshly starchedsheets exuded a pleasant fragrance which seemed to contain a mild sedative.“Come on, Jean. Let’s hurry up and get to sleep. Next time we open oureyes... it’s Christmas!”“Oh, okay, Danny,” I teased, enchanted by her display of infectiousenthusiasm.“Huh... what’s that supposed to mean?” Irene asked.“Nuthin’. Just playin’s all. Believe me, I can’t wait, either. Nighty-night,Lefty. Don’t forget to say your prayers. Oh, but it’s a little late to bring up thatking-sized present you want.”Irene giggled. “Nope. I either got it or I didn’t. We’ll know soon. Night.”As our radiator spewed steam, I was starting to drift off when I thought Iheard a voice in the hall outside our bedroom door. Though it sounded like Will’s,I knew it couldn’t be, not that late on Christmas Eve.

2“Irene, Dan Jean... Is it Christmas?” That untimely question quashed apotential victory in Sorry. Ordinarily, my dreams were at odds with reality.Leaning in so close I could feel his breath on my ear, Danny, whose whisperapproximated the volume of most kids’ normal speaking voices, repeated, “DanJean, I think it’s Christmas.”I rolled over slowly – trying not to disturb Irene – wiped my eyes, andchecked the alarm clock, the hands barely visible from the street light’s reflection.Five thirty-five – too early to get everybody up, but too late to expect Danny toreturn to bed.“Danny, shush,” I said, while trying to demonstrate quiet whispering. “Can’tyou see Irene’s still asleep?”“Heck no, I’m not. Who could sleep through all y’all’s racket?” Irenemuttered, as she groped for the switch on the bedside lamp.“Aw, a marshmallow droppin’ on a pin cushion could wake you up! Anyhow,that’s three kids down, three to go,” I said, shielding my eyes from the suddenbrightness.“You mean, three kids up, don’t you?” Irene said.“Yeah, and two very angry parents if we bother ‘em this early,” I replied.“I’ll do it,” Danny said, while pulling the zipper up and down on his blue,jumpsuit pajamas. “How do they ‘spect a high-spirited kid to sleep all night onChristmas mornin’?”Irene yawned, shook her head, and grinned. We had a minor dilemma; Irenenever failed to have intelligent ideas to avoid its horns.“What do ya think Santa brought you, buster?” I shifted my gaze from Ireneto Danny before executing a slow double take, refocusing on Irene. She wascompletely off her game with that ridiculous question.“Why should I play guessin’ games when we can just go on down yonderto the living room and find out?” Danny said, throwing his arms up in protest.After seeing no ideas on my blank face, Irene snapped her fingers and toldDanny that Santa Claus was not required to complete his rounds until daybreak;there was a chance he had not yet come. Irene headed for the living room, butnot before warning Danny that if too many of us had been bad during the year,Santa might put nothing but coal in all our stockings. Her words caused Danny togasp, shudder, and fall back between my legs to the edge of the bed. He graspedmy arms and wrapped them around his shoulders and chest. His thin frame wastrembling.Danny crossed his fingers and spoke so softly I could barely hear him, “DearSanta Claus. I hope you can hear me. I’m sorry for fibbin’, but it’s awful hard towalk off from a big bowl of nanner puddin’ when it’s just sittin’ in the frigeraterstarin’ at ya. I don’t mean to blame the puddin’, though. In a way, it was Mama’sfault for makin’ it so good, then leavin’ me a chance to get at it. Next time I’ll tryharder. If there ever is a next time, cause Mama said she won’t never let me setfoot in the kitchen alone when it’s nanner puddin’ in the house until she buys alock for the frigerater door. Anyhow, you’re a rilly nice elf, even better than theTooth Fairy. Only, please don’t tell her, ‘cause I’ll have a whole bunch of babyteeth to sell before long. I’ve only been bad about fourteen times, which ain’treally all that much when you got 365 days in a year, not countin’ for leap years.And, please, don’t give my little sisters coal on account o’ me. They’re too youngto always know what’s the right way o’ actin’. Let them have some real neat stuff,even if I don’t get none of what I asked you for. The end.” My little brother wasan absolute caution – buttering up “The Man,” while tossing in some self-servingpsychology, to boot.“Danny, now that’s how to whisper, kiddo.” I said. Then, feigningdisappointment, I asked, “But, gee whiz, how ‘bout the rest of us?”"Oh, yeah,” he said, looking back at me, his face turned upside down. “Andbring Dan Jean and Irene some real neat presents, too. Oh, and I reckon Zackoughta get some good junk, even if it was his idea to take them apples. Now,that’s the end. Hey, Dan Jean... Don’t you think Santa Clau-”A high-pitched, partially stifled shriek rang out from the hall, leaving nodoubt that Santa had made his appointed round, departed, and left a whole lotmore than coal.“Oh, my goodness,” Irene said, re-entering the bedroom and hopping inplace, her hands clasped below her chin. “He got it. Oh, sweet world, he got it.He got it.” Then, to be certain we got it, she repeated, “He GOT it!”Of course, I knew she knew that I knew what she was referring to, but Iplayed along, anyway. “Whaddaya mean? Who got what?”“Daddy got,” Irene paused, peeking at Danny, “that is, Santa got me. I mean...got us. He brought us what I’ve, we’ve – well, fruit!” I was unaccustomed to seeingIrene struggle to find the right words, something I held an advanced degree in.“He brought it,” she finally said in a measured tone. That was when I realizedit was Will’s voice I’d heard before dozing off. Dad would have needed helpwith the piano.“About time,” I said. “Maybe, now you’ll quit moving your fingers alongthe push buttons on the radio, pretending you’re playing, every time a good songcomes on.”Irene wiggled her fingers and cackled, “Ha, you sure got that right.”“That is just the living end, Reenie! I couldn’t be happier for ya.”Danny turned to me and said, “It worked, Dan Jean.”“Yep, that sure was some mighty quick finagling you did there, Pancho,” Isaid, giving his earlobe a gentle thump with my middle finger.Within moments, four-year-old Pammy drifted in, rubbing sleep from hereyes with her right hand, her left arm wrapped around her Raggedy Ann doll.Pammy’s always-tangled, dark brown hair was an incredibly gnarled mess thatChristmas morning. I motioned her over to the dresser where I took a seat, brushin hand. She started whimpering before I made the first stroke. I reminded herthat Dad would be taking moving pictures. Frowning, she sucked on the tip ofher index finger and let me proceed, without further protest.We heard the distinctive squeak of Mama and Dad’s door, followed byplodding footsteps along the hardwood floor in the hall, and knew Mama hadrisen. Irene’s joy tumbled into gloom. There was a strong possibility that her shriekwould bring about the dreaded one-sided conversation from Mama, somethingIrene rarely experienced.Danny sensed Irene’s distress and in a voice as deep as he could muster,said, “Fee-fi-fo-fum.” Irene snatched him and Pammy from the floor, sat onthe bed, and struggled mightily to fi t the two of them on her lap. I gawked inamazement. She planned to use our kid brother and sister as shields. Irene exhaledwhen Mama bypassed our room and continued to the kitchen to put coffee onand place sausage patties in the skillet. Five minutes later, Mama walked in withlittle Susie toddling behind. She stood, arms akimbo, surveying the room, beforefl ashing an ear-to-ear grin. Mama looked radiant, remarkably so for that hour ofthe morning. She had risen long before any of us in preparation for her film debut.“Daddy’s gettin’ the camera and everything set up, so we’ll just hold ourhorses quietly right here until he gives the call.” When Mama scanned the roomanew, Danny read her eyes.“Crabby Appleton Zack, he’s the one missin’, Mama!” Danny said. “I triedto get him up awalla go, but he wouldn’t budge.”Unlike the rest of our light-sleeping family, Zack could rest peacefullythrough a blitzkrieg. Several times during his nine-and-a-half month residency inher womb, Mama was fearful Zack wouldn’t make it to term because he wouldhibernate for so long without kicking. After nine months and ten days her worryshifted; she began to wonder if he would ever vacate the premises. It was anindication of things to come. Zack never changed, constantly wanting to “sleepin,” as most folks say, though we never used the term. What else could one do?Sleep out? Not with the mercury dipping into the teens that unusually frigid DeepSouth morning. When someone was slow to rise, we referred to it as “sleepinglate.” The later the better as far as Zack was concerned.“Oh, yeah? So, he wouldn’t get up for you, huh, Danny? We’ll just seeabout that. I may hafta scob his little noggin.” Mama placed Susie into the firstgift Santa ever delivered to us, Irene’s tiny, polka dot rocker. Then, she headedfor Zack’s room. When she opened his door we could hear that boy snoring likea pig with a head cold.We were sitting back quietly – visions of games, toys, and Krispy Kremedonuts occupying our imaginations – when came a loud, piercing noiseresounding throughout the house. We bolted up in unison. Mama had cut loosewith her world-class, two-fingered whistle, the one used almost exclusively tosummon us home from the outermost reaches of our neighborhood. We had neverheard her unleash that ear-ringer indoors and I doubted we would ever hear itinside again, considering the reaction it got.I thrust my head into the hallway in time to see the living room door openand hear Dad yell, “Great Caesar’s ghost, what was that?”That was the gist of what he said. He used a word I was not familiar with,but, judging from her expression, Mama was. She looked to be walking on eggswhile silently whistling past the graveyard, Zack close behind. She might havestunned even the graveyard with the volume of that gust. Rolling her eyes, Mamacalled softly over her shoulder, “Sorry, honey, won’t happen again.”Mama took a seat on my bed, and we waited impatiently, but silently forDad’s trademark call. A few antsy minutes later, we heard the familiar cry of“BOART,” a word Dad coined. It could mean anything from “Get in the car,we’re leaving” to “You got your orders for your chores, so get started” to “Theonce-broken furnace is steaming away” to “I’m ready for y’all to come on innow.” On that Christmas morning, it meant the latter.Mama lined us up, youngest to oldest, single file, to make sure our faces werevisible as we entered. She told Irene and me to swap places, since I was taller,even though I was nineteen months younger. Either way, I planned to avoid thattortuous lens at every turn. Before opening the door to Fantasy Land, otherwiseknown as our living room, Mama pulled Irene aside and, in a hurried, seethingwhisper, let her have it.“Julia Irene Beechworth, I know what your little scream was earlier. Thankyour lucky stars your Daddy was in the bathroom and didn’t hear it. You hadbetter show the same amount of enthusiasm now as you did when you sneakeda look. You understand, young lady?”Irene was mystified. Her voice went up two octaves as she softly, butanimatedly, pleaded her case, “My stars, Mama. I only barely saw it through thedarkness. I’m sorry, but don’t you sweat over me acting excited. I’m shakinglike a leaf over here right now, and it is definitely no act.” Mama smiled andopened the door.The bright light from the camera caused the toys to glisten beautifully. Oursiblings scattered in different directions toward their respective name tags. Irenegrabbed my hand and we scampered across to the piano – a lovely, new Baldwinwrapped in an elegant, pink bow. Irene must have been dying to tickle the ivories,but she sat contentedly by my side on the polished, wooden bench, savoring thefascination on the faces of our younger brothers and sisters.Dad was in his element holding the movie camera, fl ashing the toothiestsmile, reminding me of Bucky Beaver in the Ipana toothpaste commercials. Overthe din, he made the announcement which had become a greatly anticipated partof his Christmas morning routine.“Got some great news, kids. We were Santa’s last stop, so, in addition towhat he already intended to leave us, and since he was anxious to get on back tothe North Pole for a big bowl of Mrs. Claus’ banana pudding, and seeing as howhe and his reindeer were totally exhausted, well, he just decided to go ahead andshake out all the leftovers in his bag right here on our floor!” Dad had obviouslygotten wind of my conversation with Danny the night before. Irene and I smiled,knowing the little ones were as captivated as we had been upon hearing thosebeguiling words a few years earlier.Zack shook off the doldrums when he saw his supposedly genuine NewYork Yankees cap, excellent for covering up the truly genuine, major leaguecowlick in his crew cut brown hair. A Mickey Mantle baseball bat and a WillieMays glove rounded out his baseball collection.Having little empty floor space to work with, Danny was hopping in smallcircles while doing his best to imitate some of the between-the-legs and behind-the-back dribbles of the Harlem Globetrotters, with his new, junior-size basketball.The long, blue and green stocking cap he had donned as his gay apparel beforeentering the living room made him look like an escapee from A Christmas Carol.He briefly fired the pistol attached to his shooting gallery, before picking up thesticks to his Gene Autry drum set. As Danny started wailing away, Mama looked atDad, teeth gritted. Apparently, that present had not been given her seal of approval.Fortunately, Danny soon noticed the Tudor Electric Football game amongsthis bounty, and yelled to Zack. They hauled the metal field to the nearest plug.Danny set up his men with one hand while the other was busy stuffing KrispyKremes in his mouth, as Zack chided him about touching anything with hisdonut-greased fingers. Christmas and birthdays were the only times eatingrestrictions were lifted. On those occasions, we could gorge ourselves to ourstomach’s content. Danny ate half a dozen chocolate cream-filled donuts, withwhipped cream and a cherry on top of each. Rather than warn him once more ofthe potential price of overindulgence, Mama bided her time, waiting for Dannyto get sick so he would learn his lesson, but, as usual, he didn’t, unless messy faceis a sickness. Invariably, Mama wound up saying something like, “I’ll swanee,Danny, you’re a bottomless pit.”Pammy was in make-believe, grown-up heaven when she saw her largedoll house, with breakaway windows and doors, and a chandelier-adorned livingroom. Her Easy-Bake Oven was a step up from her usual fare of mud pies andimaginary finger foods to the real world of cooking.“I’m gonna make dessoit tonight, otay, Mommy?” Pammy said, her faceglowing with excitement. Mama smiled and nodded, proudly.The baby, golden-haired Susie, pale blue eyes in full-blown fascination,fl uttered about the room like a butterfly with no place to light, yelling, “Can-Caus,”her gibberish for Santa Claus. Judging from the full look of her pajama bottoms,and a creeping odor which was starting to wreak havoc on the wonderful scentsof pine, sausage frying, and coffee brewing, one abysmally unpleasant packageneeded to be opened promptly.“Why, I just changed her this mornin’. Musta been all the excitement,” Mamasaid, tossing me a diaper. “Take her back yonder and tend to the unpleasantries,Dannie Jean.”I was incensed. Before leaving the room I told Mama that such a disgustingchore was twenty times worse than mopping a measly floor. She acknowledgedmy irritation with a sympathetic wave.Dad, in his white tee shirt, green work breeches, and brown house shoes,stood erect and alert, his camera constantly changing directions in a futile effortto capture the widespread merriment in its entirety. He did get a long, clear shotof my slow retreat with Susie, which never failed to bring major laughs – andembarrassed protests from Susie – through the ensuing years. I was holding herhand at arm’s length, striving for maximum separation, while she tottered along,her diaper bottom dangling dangerously close to the carpet.The good news was, the camera worked fine and the pictures were clear. Thebad news was, Dad was no Alfred Hitchcock, though his frequent movement ofthe camera from one shot to another did create a sense of vertigo in those of us whoviewed his handiwork. We had to remember the places to shutter our eyes whenwe watched the film. Thankfully, Dad’s pan and scan skills improved over time.Santa typically left one special gift for the family at large, usually somethingeducational. The previous year it was an electric typewriter. This time, we receiveda new, twenty-four volume set of World Book Encyclopedias. Opening a book, Iinhaled the distinctive scent and vowed to put them to good use, and not merelyfor required school assignments. My early New Year’s resolution was to becomean intelligence force to be reckoned with, maybe even soaring into the rarefiedair occupied by the smartest girl I knew – my older sister.Once the hubbub had settled into mild chaos, Dad appointed me cameraman.Irene, who had restrained herself from playing the piano until then, walked overand gave Dad a hug. She mouthed “thank you” with unbridled joy and affectionradiating from her eyes. Dad looked equally pleased while saying, “You’rewelcome, princess.” Returning to the bench, Irene began serenading us withChristmas songs, hitting very few sour notes in the process.The only uncluttered place remaining was the love seat. There, my parentssat to exchange gifts. Following custom, Mama presented Dad with his gift first.Given the length and narrowness of the packaging, he had a pretty good idea ofthe contents. We had all guessed it to be a fishing pole. Be that as it may, Dadobserved our long-standing family tradition of making the suspense last as longas possible. The one opening a gift never looked at the item until every scrap ofwrapping paper was removed and the actual container, if there was one, wasdiscarded. In that instance, observing tradition merely delayed the obvious. Itwas a fishing pole. But, considering Dad’s jaw-dropping reaction, it must havebeen some pole.When Dad leaned over, hugged Mama, and said, “Thanks, hon, I really loveit,” he sealed it with a peck on the lips, and the significance hit me immediately.“Hey, y’all. I just got Mama and Daddy’s first moving picture smooch.” Thelaughter following that comment went through the chimney.I was far more comfortable stationed behind the camera than in front.Maintaining focus on the subjects while keeping a steady hand came naturallyto me.With the speed of sorghum fl owing through a colander, Dad placed Mama’sgift on her lap. Irene was aware of the contents, but knew better than to tell me.She did say it was very special. A sudden vibration and flapping sound gave mea start and I almost fumbled the camera.Dad jumped up and said, “Gosh, be careful, Jean. My fault, though. I shouldhave warned you about that. Of course, I’ve only experienced it once, myself.”The film was used up, but Dad had another roll on his desk. He sent Zack toretrieve it while he readied the camera for another session. I looked slowly aroundthe room, marveling at the bounty, when I noticed something barely visible nearDanny’s name tag. In all the commotion, we had forgotten it.Pointing to the corner of a gray box peeking from beneath a pile of rubble, Isaid, “What’s that right there, Danny? Looks like you missed one. Better let it be,though, until Daddy’s ready.” During the delay, I ran to the kitchen for some dampnapkins to wipe the sticky donut residue from Danny’s face. Things could nothave worked out better had they been planned. What was sure to be a memorableevent demanded its own uninterrupted screen play. Danny waited restlessly forDad to turn on the camera. When he got the nod, Danny lit into that box like abear into a picnic basket, though he did keep his eyes fixed on the ceiling until allof the wrappings were removed and the box opened. And there it was.“Davey, Danny Crockett, king of the wild frontier.” Irene sang and Icaterwauled the theme song from the Disney television show. It isn’t often afive-year-old boy sheds tears of joy, but when Danny saw that complete DavyCrockett outfit, including the coonskin cap, his eyes capsized. Mama told Zackto go back and help Danny put it on. When they returned a few minutes later,Danny appeared to have lost some weight, despite all of those donuts. By design,the outfit was too large, allowing room for his growth spurts.Mama said, “I’ll swanee. Would y’all take a look at my little rascal? Comehere, you.” As Danny protested, she picked him up and kissed his cheeks, leavinglipstick where the donut cream had been.“You can’t be kissin’ on ol’ Davy Crockett like that, Mama. It ain’t fittin’,nor proper.” Above the laughter following Danny’s comment, I told Dad weneeded a camera with sound. As I filmed him, Dad reached into his empty pantspockets, turned them inside out, wiggled his eyebrows, shrugged, and waddledacross the room like Charlie Chaplin.The moment had arrived for Mama to unwrap her present. She seemedbashful when it came to opening gifts from Dad. I don’t know if it was becauseshe was afraid she wouldn’t like what he had gotten, and it would show, or, if shewas concerned that she might not seem enthusiastic enough even if she liked hisgift. Either of those responses was less likely than John Wayne being the villain.When Mama opened the beautiful, store-wrapped, lavender box to see an itemshe had wanted since she was a little girl and her Great Aunt Vashti sported one,she all but passed out. Before her was a mink stole, and, unlike Zack’s baseballcap, it was one hundred percent authentic. With hands trembling, she gentlyreached in to extract that extravagant fur piece.“Honey, can we afford this? You shouldn’t have. It’s gorgeous, but I’m sure itcost too much. Ahhh, I love it, baby. I can’t keep this, though. But it is so beautiful.How much did you have to pay? No, I don’t want to know. Irene, did you knowabout this, sweetie? Oh, my goodness, why’d you put me in this predicament, DanBeechworth? Lordy, Lordy, what should I do?” Mama’s head was on a swivelas she continued to ramble on, sounding like a befuddled attorney representingboth sides of the same case. Dad sat soaking it in, with a grin reminiscent of thecat who ate the canary. He did so relish watching her carry on that way.“Why, sugar, that’s from Santa. Didn’t cost me a dime,” Dad teased, asMama’s reservations gradually eroded. Eventually, she wrapped up in the stoleand placed her head on Dad’s shoulder, sighing in contentment. And I caught itall on film.With the gift-giving complete, we stood together to perform our annualversion of “Hark the Herald Angels Sing.” Amid throat-clearing and a few do-re-misin front of the stocking-covered fi replace, we lined up to pay our respects bysinging to the One whose birthday we were celebrating. Looking directly at me,with the camera relentlessly rolling, Dad told us to face him and sing out loud andclear. I was suddenly grateful that camera didn’t have sound, but, unbeknownstto any of us, Dad had secreted our tape recorder behind the couch; it had beenrunning all morning. He wanted to preserve our genuine comments, uninfluencedby technology. When we finished the last line, “Glory to the newborn King,” wecasually removed our hand-stitched, red and green stockings from the mantle.Our Grandmother Yates made one for each of her grandkids when we were born,emblazoning our names in silver across the top. On Christmas morning, they werefilled with the same things – tangerines, Brazil nuts, and butterscotch candy. Theonly time I recall seeing those items around our house was during the Christmasseason. In fact, a half-empty package of Brazil nuts hidden behind some cannedgoods in the pantry, shortly after my eighth Yuletide, yielded my first clue to thetightly-guarded secret of Santa.My parents and siblings could not have been happier that Christmas morning.As for me, I got plenty of what I expected – clothes, a charm bracelet, coloredbobbie socks, an Annie Oakley game. A couple of gifts struck me as weird – afirst aid kit and a diary. Mouth-to-mouth resuscitation alone was reason enoughfor me to avoid learning first aid. And, why waste precious time recording mypitiable experiences in a diary; the last thing I needed was a problem-reminder.Overall, though, I was pleased. One particular gift did stand out beak and breastabove the rest – a shimmering, yellow canary, in an accessory-packed cage. Inamed my long-awaited, first pet “Wingsong.” Little did I know, Wingsongwould soon have me hoping that Dad’s catty smile minutes earlier might be aportent of things to come.

3Though 1955 was a quiet year, relatively speaking, it ended with a relative’sbang. Mama and Dad would be attending a formal New Year’s Eve dance thrownby the Eastern Star. It would be the first time for Irene and me to babysit after dark,and we felt empowered over being responsible for our siblings. Zack protested,saying “I don’t need no looking after,” but brother, would his statement go downin flames before the evening ended.Mama had recently been elected “Worthy Matron,” the highest rankingofficial in the Star’s local chapter. The dance would be her first chance to wearDad’s Christmas gift. Mama was ultra weather-conscious in the days leading upto the big event. When it turned warm about midweek, her spirits flagged. Thethermometer contained far too much red for her to wear fur, without seemingfl aunty. But, by the week-end, Old Man Winter returned with a vengeance, puttingthe twinkle back in Mama’s eyes.On the evening of the affair, Irene spent over an hour styling Mama’s hairinto what resembled a braided crown. Mama was draped in a blue-green gownwith matching earrings. With the mink added, she looked absolutely majestic.Dad, who wasn’t given to high fashion, looked extraordinarily handsomefor the occasion. His outfit – a navy blue, double-breasted suit with hat to match– was the perfect complement to Mama’s elegance. A light-green band encircledhis fedora. A wavy, brown lock of hair peeked from just under the brim.“Daddy, I love your spit curl,” I said. Dad promptly brushed the curl backunder his hat.“Daddy, where’s the camera?” Irene had spotted the obvious. The momenthad “everlasting visual” written all over it.“Awww, it’s too late to get out all that movie equip-”“No, no, Daddy, I mean the Ansco – the still camera.”“Oh,” Dad said, looking relieved. “Hang on a sec, honey.”Dad retrieved the camera and handed it to Irene, who took several snapshots,one of which turned out to be priceless. In it, Dad is looking up at Mama withthe adoration of a blue-eyed puppy. Dad did not care for the photo. Key words– “looking up.” Those pesky high heels again.At seven PM, our parents began making their way to the door. By seven-fifteen, they were still making their way to the door. Mama kept thinking of thingsIrene and I should know, in case problems arose. Eventually, Dad stood betweenMama and the rest of us, gently nudging her beyond the front door, down thesteps, and coaxing her to the curb where our green and white, 1955 Nash Ramblerstation wagon was parked. All six of us kids were jammed in the doorway whenMama hollered one final reminder as they pulled away.“Y’all remember, Santa’s still watching.” Irene and I looked at each other indisbelief. New Year’s eve struck us as a wee bit premature to be invoking “TheMan’s” name as a remedy to bad behavior.Danny, in the frontier outfit he had worn daily since Christmas, yelled, “Okay.Remember the Alamo, Mom!” Our moment of glory had arrived.Right away, everyone seemed in high spirits, except for Susie, who cried,“I-mo-ma-mama” for the next fifteen minutes. None of my usual methods, likemaking silly faces, would make her hush. It wasn’t until I handed her a Tupperwaremixing bowl, coated with the remains of chocolate batter from brownies Irenewas making, that she piped down.“Funny how chocolate can make a toddler forget her issues,” Irene said.With a rebellious air, Danny said, “We’re stayin’ up ‘til the next year, ‘cozDaddy said we could.” Pammy nodded emphatically.Irene closed the oven door, leaned against it, held her open palms upwardat shoulder level and said, “Fine by me, kiddos. Y’all can stay up until morningand watch your first sunrise while you’re at it.”Danny and Pammy stared at each other with a puzzled look that seemed tosay, “What’s the fun of staying up late if nobody cares if we stay up late?”While the brownies baked, we discussed how best to spend the balance ofour evening. We were so excited over being Chief Cook and Bottle Washer thatwe hadn’t given much thought to anything beyond that lifetime achievementaward. Watching The Perry Como Show was the extent of our planning. We lovedhis voice and laid back attitude, but seldom got to watch the program, since TheHoneymooners came on at the same time. If Dad was home, and he normallywas on Saturday night, Ralph Kramden was king of our castle.I suggested we take the kids out back to light sparklers. Danny and Pammybounced on their toes, smitten with my idea.“Me pway spockle, too,” Susie enthused.Irene dressed the little ones and led them out back, while I looked formatches. I told Zack to join us, but he said he would rather watch television. Hisrequest seemed harmless and I gave my approval, though I wasn’t sure I had thatauthority. I ran to the porch and flipped off the floodlights so that the sparklerswould appear brighter. While cradling Susie in her right arm, Irene extended asparkler in her left. I had found only four matches; each one had to count. Rightaway, I lost one to the wind. On the second try, I lit Irene’s sparkler. She heldit steady while I fired up two more, handing them to Danny and Pammy. Afterthat, each time a sparkler was about to burn out, we used it to light another. Theexhilaration on the little ones’ faces reminded me of how I had once felt, butsparklers were dullsville to me by then, a promising introduction with no payoff.When we were down to the last of the sparklers, the phone rang. I ran in,yelling for Zack to answer it. No response. And, little wonder, it was Mama. I wasnot pleased with Mama’s calling so soon, feeling it gave the impression that sheactually thought we might do something as foolish as leaving Zack inside whilethe rest of us went out back to play with fire in the wind and cold.“Mama, we’ve got the number where y’all are, all of two miles away. Ican’t believe you’d think we flubbed up this quick. If anything was to happen,don’t you know we’d call? Why can’t you just enjoy y’alls night out instead ofworryin’ about us ever’ two seconds? We’ve been playin’ with the kids, just havin’fun, and we’re fixin’ to eat some brownies Irene’s making here in a few minutes.Everything is hunky-dory, Mama. I promise.” Startled by my own bluntness, Idecided some levity was needed to ward off possible backlash.Using Mama’s playbook, I asked, “Now, Mama, what is it Irene’s makin’?”It worked. Mama laughed heartily and seemed relieved by my objections toher call. I knew it was not Irene she was worried about, anyway. She promisednot to call back except to say “Happy New Year.”That rare burst of self-assertion had me feeling pretty good as I hung up thephone. Then, I thought of Zack and my zeal vanished before I had a chance torevel in it. Irene and the kids walked in.“Mama?” Irene said.“Yep.”“Where’s Zack?”“That’s what I was just wondering. He asked if he could look at TV and Isaid ‘OK’.”“And you fell for it! Jean, sometimes you’re as lame as a rahbul.”“Takes one to know one,” I shot back.“Brilliant response, Jean. Well, those brownies oughta be done. Let’s have atreat before we have to fret over that little scalawag.” Irene took out the brownieswhile I retrieved a half gallon of ice cream from the back porch freezer.“This stuff is as hard as a brick,” I said, placing it on the counter with a thud.“No wonder. Cold as it is outside, the freezer must be at absolute zero.” Ireneglanced my way, no doubt expecting me to be puzzled over the term.“Yep, that’s pretty cold, alright,” I said, struggling to keep a straight face.“Here, let’s stick it in the hot oven for a few minutes.” In no time, we were digginginto the hot and cold euphoria of brownies à la mode.I took a large bite and noticed Danny staring at me, his hands frozen in space.“What’s the matter, Danny?” My question was garbled, as the gooey concoctionstuck to the roof of my mouth. He parted his lips and bared his teeth, revealinga gap where his upper right front tooth had been. “Look, Lefty, Danny’s finallylost his tooth! What’s wrong, did the wind blow and freeze your face, Danny?”I said, smiling. I leaned in for a closer inspection and saw no blood.“Naw, Dan Jean, I just didn’t know how elth to look right now.”“Where is it, Danny? Stuck in your brownie?” Irene asked.“I think... I mighta... thwallowed it,” Danny whined. “Geth that meanth noToof Fairy for me, huh, ‘rene?” His bottom lip began to protrude.“No-no, buddy. That isn’t how it works. I haven’t read Tinkerbell’sStandardized Tooth Fairy Rules in a while, but I know it has a clause to coverswallowed choppers. Anyhow, let’s be sure you did swallow it, first. Pass meyour bowl.”Irene poked and prodded until she found his tiny incisor hidden in somepartially melted ice cream. Handing it to him, she said, “Here you go, kiddo. Runput it under your pillow before you lose it again.”“Wow, way to go, Reen. Now, we won’t have to look up Tink’s ruleth forswallowed toofs,” Danny exclaimed while leaping into the air and pumping hisfi st. “Hey, reckon the Toof Fairy’ll leave me thum extra money thince it’s gotdethert on it?” Danny said, while jogging toward his room. When he returned,Danny drank what was left in his bowl, and I bounced up to get seconds for thetwo of us.With our chocolate cravings satisfied, Irene and I rinsed the dishes andstarted a search through Zack’s usual hiding places, hoping he was trying toaggravate us. But, we knew that if he was anywhere within sniffing distance ofthose brownies, he would have surfaced. We could not find him. The kitchenclock read eight-thirty. Perry Como was half over. Susie was getting fretful, soI warmed her bottle, put her in the crib, and she was asleep before I completedthe first verse of “Bringing in the Sheaves.” I loved singing to Susie, Pammy,and Danny, since they seemed oblivious to the fact that I couldn’t carry a tune ina metal washtub. Walking from the bedroom into the living room, I heard Ireneyelling on the front lawn.“Zack. Zack Ross BEECHWORTH!”In my rush to get outside to tell her to knock it off, I stubbed my big toe.“Oh, shoot and heckfire, Irene,” I cried out, before I was anywhere near the door.The arctic blast when I opened it made me angrier still. “What in tarnation doyou think you’re DOIN’, Irene?”“What does it look like? I’m trying to find your vagrant little brother.”“Yeah, but Reenie,” I lowered my voice, for it was my own clumsiness thatcaused me to hurt my toe. “If you use his full name, you might as well go aheadand tell him he’s already got hisself in a peck of trouble. Only time Mama doesthat’s when’s she’s mad as a hornet.”Irene nodded and said, “Okay, but, what if he’s out past midnight with theolder boys? They’ll be setting off fireworks and running the gamut from mischiefto mayhem. How do we explain that to Mama and Daddy?”“Maybe we won’t have to,” I said, while trying to figure out what a “gamut”was. “Danny and Pammy can’t stay awake much longer. Once they’re asleep,we’ll track his little butt down. Mama promised not to call back ‘til New Year’s,which means that phone’ll be ringing about two minutes past midnight.”Smirking, Irene said, “Okay. Let’s get them to bed so we can start searching.”In the den, Pammy was stretched out on the carpet, playing with her dollhouse, looking about half as tired as a muskrat on No-Doz. Danny was behind thecouch, popping up in his coonskin cap every few seconds to fire another roundfrom his plastic rifle toward Santa Anna’s steadily advancing army.“This ain’t goin’ too good,” I said, stifling a yawn.“Jean, don’t you dare even think about gettin’ sleepy on me now!”“Awww, just a random yawn,” I said, while fighting off another.“What caused somnolence in us when we were little?” Irene asked, cradlingher chin and humming like Kingfish on Amos and Andy. “Hmmm.”“Counting backwards from absolute zero?” I said. “Cut out the fifty-centwords and speak English, egghead.”Irene pursed her lips and slowly articulated each syllable, “What...made...us...sleep...y, Jean?”“Gimme a break. I dunno. How ‘bout ‘Laugh in the Dark’?”“Laugh” was a game I made up, similar to Hide ‘n Seek. After beingblindfolded, the “It” person was required to grabble through a darkened roomuntil they touched someone. When the touch was made, “It” had to guess theperson he was holding. If the guess was correct, the identified person became“It.” Usually, nervous giggles from the one being touched made guessing easy.Playing without lights encouraged sleepiness.“Gosh, great idea, Jean. Okay, let’s give that a tussle. Hey, we just had‘somnolence’ on a spelling test was how I knew that word means ‘sleep.’ Justmessing with you. Okay, y’all ready? Let’s play!” Danny and Pammy wereraring to have at it.After a quick round of Rock, Paper, Scissors, I won the right to count offthe “One potato, two potato” rhyme, or, as we called it, “One tay, two tay.” Forty-five minutes and ten different “Its” later, Pammy was first to crash, the sandmannabbing her while she sprawled beneath Irene’s bed. Soon after, Danny’s constantyawns indicated he was losing the battle with his “staying awake ‘til the next year”proclamation. To hurry things along, Irene told him he could lie on the living roomcouch to watch television, and, if he happened to fall asleep, we’d awaken himbefore midnight. With eyelids reluctantly drooping, Danny accepted her terms.Danny dozed off as our grandfather clock, Big Tom, tolled the ten o’clockhour. I never asked where the name “Big Tom” originated, but I had a hunchDad made it up to poke fun, indirectly, at Mama’s sisters. At least two of thempronounced “time” like “tom,” as in, “What tom is it?” But then, few trueSoutherners are phonetic fanatics. The soothing, hypnotic ticking of that clockacted as an aural tranquilizer. Unfortunately, a wayward brother, with a noseas predisposed for trouble as for snoring, had extended the miles we had to gobefore somnolence became an option. Irene scooped Danny off to bed, while Igrabbed our heavy sweaters.We got as far as the front lawn before noticing how much stiffer the breezehad become. Wind chill was not yet factored into the temperature, but we didn’tneed a meteorologist to tell us it was downright bitter out. Irene ran back inside tograb our fur-lined gloves and hooded car coats. I saw Ma Boone’s back porch lightburning, and, thinking I might be on to something, pointed out my observationwhen Irene returned. She asked if it was uncommon for Ma Boone’s porch lightto be on at that time of night. I admitted I had never noticed before. She said Ishould leave the detective work to Sherlock Holmes. I bristled.We wandered the area aimlessly, so heavily clothed that we had to turnour entire torsos, robotic-like, to see in different directions. Periodically, weheard fireworks. As time passed, the combination of overcast sky and painfulwind, along with the late hour and gradually increasing noises, created a senseof impending doom within us. Our once-safe neighborhood had turned intosomething more ghastly than the Edgar Allan Poe poem Dad had read to us onHalloween. I half-expected a raven to swoop down from the trees at any moment.Though we were already holding hands, our grips tightened. Irene attemptedto lighten the mood by reciting, “Lions and tigers and bears, oh my.”Following her lead, I gave a woeful impersonation of Woody Woodpecker.Jokes could not hide the helpless look in our eyes. A hospital’s grading systemwould have listed us as “serious.” Mama could call at any time, but certainlywould call shortly after midnight, and we didn’t dare lie if Zack was unaccountedfor. But even if we found him, what good would it do if she reneged on herpromise and called back without one of us there to pick up the phone? Shouldthat happen, Mama would appear in two shakes of a hickory switch. Grim realitywas bearing down with a Roman candle’s red glare. Irene decided to burst somevocal bombs in midair.“Zack Beechworth, where are you? You get over here right now.Zaaaaccccckkk!” Irene screamed for all she was worth, but her words wereswallowed by the wind.“You’re just spittin’ in the creek there, Reenie. Allow me.”“It’s ‘ocean,’ Jean.”“What’s ‘ocean’?”“It’s supposed to be ‘spitting in the ocean,’ not ‘creek’.”“What about ‘wind,’ then? It could be ‘spittin’ in the wind,’ couldn’t it?”“It could. But you were using a body of water, which calls for ‘ocean’.”“Ocean, smotion. Village Creek is the only ocean we’ve got. Besides, it’sno time for quibblin’ now. Cover your ears.”“They already are covered.” Irene pointed to the hood of her car coat.“I meant your hands... your gloves. Awww, cover ‘em with your glovedhands.”“Oh, okay. Got ya covered.”My shouting voice rivaled Mama’s whistle. “Zaaaaccck.” I screamed, whileslowly rotating. “ZACK ROSS BEECHWORTH, unless you want big troubles,”I paused to inhale, “you better come on home, NOW, BOY! Aw, hush,” I said,before Irene could hassle me for using Zack’s full name.“Well, I’ll guarantee you one thing. If that blast didn’t get Zack’s attention,we might as well throw in the towel.”“You mean, ‘Throw in the dynamite’.”“Huh?”“You said ‘blast.’ What’s a towel got to do with it? Heh-heh-heh-heh-heh.Ahem.”“Jean, anyone ever tell you you’re nuts, certifiable even?” Irene’s attemptat a smile didn’t take.Our bubbling enthusiasm from earlier in the evening had lost its fizz.Surrogate parenthood had major downsides. Our emotions had run Irene’s gamut:disgust toward Zack for his disappearing act, anger at ourselves for letting himslip off, fear for our own safety, and, most importantly, concern for Zack’s safety.Despite the assorted bangs, we were unable to detect movement in anythingbut plant life. We might well have been cobbling through a noisy ghost town. Morethan likely, the apparent absence of human life was due to the fact that we werethe only ones foolish enough to be out in such terrible weather for any measurabletime. Our only option was to set out for home, praying Zack had returned.Making our way up the steps to the front porch was difficult. We were acomplete mess – muscles tight, faces chapped, ears stinging, spirits sagging.Fearing things that go bump in the night, we tiptoed over the porch throughshifting shadows raised by the street light’s illumination of the rustling shrubs, asthe gusting wind moved them to and fro. I reached for the brass doorknob. Whenthe tips of my fingers touched it, a thunderous noise jolted me into Irene’s arms.“What the heck...” Beyond those words, Irene was speechless. Tears welledin my eyes as we hugged cheek-to-cheek. Those gyrating shrubs were startingto look like ghostly apparitions.Voice trembling, I said, “That could’na been thunder. It didn’t rumble right.Plus, it’s way too cold to be thunderin’. S’pose it was a sonic boom, Reenie?”We knew what a sonic boom was, but neither of us had ever heard one.We peeled our cheeks apart – the cold and some unwashed brownie à la mode on my facehad caused our skin to stick – and scampered into the house, locking the door.“Serious” had just been downgraded to “critical.”Anytime I was looking forward to something, like a good show coming ontelevision, the call to supper, or a trip to Lowe’s Skating Rink, Big Tom wouldmove so slowly, I worried that he was about ticked out. But, when we returnedfrom our fruitless search that evening, that old clock had been running like JesseOwens in Berlin. It was nineteen minutes until the witching hour, with no solutionto the Zack Ross Beechworth mystery in sight. Moaning, we fell back into thedeep, charcoal gray sofa cushions. Our world was in chaos. We sat in solemnsilence, staring at the floor, hoping for a miracle – anything that would preventour having to do what we knew could not wait another moment. “Critical” washanging by a frayed thread.“Want me to?” I asked, with all the sincerity I could summon under thecircumstances. Irene sent me an appreciative look for offering, but she knew itwas the Chief Cook, not the Bottle Washer, who, ultimately, bore the responsibilityfor our misfortune. With a tortured look she slowly removed the glove from herleft hand. I watched it tremble as she reached for the phone on the coffee table.Her index finger remained inserted in the dial for each painfully slow trip forwardand back until she reached the last of the digits – a seven.“Please, let it be a lucky seven,” Irene said, while gazing toward the ceiling,still searching for a miracle. Redirecting her eyes to mine, she took a deep breathand, with a sigh of resignation, turned the rotary dial loose.Since that last big boom, a deathly hush had fallen over our world. Onlytwo sounds were audible – our irregular breathing and the incessant, annoyingticking of that confounded clock. (It is truly remarkable how greatly mood can alterperception.) I leaned on Irene and heard the first ring, followed by another loudreport, not nearly as deafening as the previous one, but much closer. Additionally,the second one sounded destructive, like something out of a war movie, only, thewar was taking place in our backyard. I pressed the hang-up button, ending the call.“Oh, my word, Jean, what was that?” Irene said. We broke toward the back,hit the floodlights, and opened the door. There stood Zack – rigid, mouth wideopen, hands clasped atop his head.“Gracious goodness, Zack!” Irene threw her arms up as she ran towardhim. “Are you okay, baby?”Out of the corner of my eye, I saw someone slipping down the driveway ina great hurry. I determined instantly that Zack, though visibly shaken, wasn’t inphysical distress, so I lit out after my brother’s accomplice. As the culprit turnedoff our driveway, he couldn’t avoid running under the street light in front of OldLady Lewis’ house, and, as I suspected, it was Roy.“Roy Lucifer Wilson! You know I can catch you, so you’d best just stopright there, Buster Brown. Get back here this instant or I’ll kick your can rightin front of your friends this next time, you pusillanimous rascal.” That markedthe first time I had used the word I picked up from my grandfather, only he said“pusillanimous skunk.” But, since Zack said Roy made a habit of showering atleast twice a day, skunk was not much of a fit.Roy stopped, lowered his head, and did a u-turn. I hurried back to Zack.His expression suggested that he might have had a genuine encounter with Mr.Poe’s bird, but his body was unscathed, for the time being, anyway. Once ourparents got home, his physical condition was subject to going from “good” to“grave” very quickly.Looking as sheepish as Bo Peep likely did when she lost hers, Roy roundedthe corner. His hands were crammed so deeply into the pockets of his greencorduroy pants that I could barely see the crook of his elbows. An orange toboggandangled from his right back pocket.Irene stood erect, neck cocked, eyes blazing, and said, “Smells like a sulfurfactory out here. Okay, let’s have it. What happened? And be quick about it.” Zackand Roy stared at the ground, hoping to concoct a halfway believable, bald-facedlie. Irene continued, “ Fess up. Let’s have it! Now!”“Well, Paulie Snider’s Dad went somewhere in Mississippi a coupla weeksago to, you know, to buy some fireworks and junk.” As Roy spoke, I could see atrace of pink in his ears, not unexpected given the temperature out, but he had amost unusual characteristic. Anytime he got excited or embarrassed, his earlobesturned pink. “Anyhow, I think that’s the only reason he went, but, you know, hemight’ve had something else to do over there, cause that’s where Paulie’s, youknow, grandmother lives, since her sister took ill. Seems like it was last Tuesday,but... no, I think it mighta been Wednesday. I forget that part, but whatever, youknow, he was ju-”“No, I don’t know, Roy. Sometimes you’re as thick as a tuba, you know it?We ain’t got all night. Like Joe Friday says, ‘Just the facts’.”Zack continued studying the ground. Roy took a deep breath and coughedup the facts. “Paulie traded me two cherry bombs for an Indian head nickel andsaid they would go off underwater, so I hid ‘em until tonight, and Zack walkedby my winder and I told him about ‘em. We like never to have found a light,‘cause I didn’t want to borry matches from nobody who might ask ‘what for,’‘cause I heard cherry bombs might be against the law. Anyway, we went overto Village Creek to see if they’d really stay lit under water. But it was so dark,the one I threw landed on a rock and exploded, which wasted half of my Indianhead, right there. Then Zack said we should drop the other one in the toilet waterin y’alls shed where we couldn’t miss, and we did, but we didn’t think it’d work,‘cause water puts out fire. Ever’body knows that. So I was gonna make Pauliegive me my nickel back, but it did work and that’s what you smell and that’s allthey is to it, so help me.”Irene said, “What’s that stickin’ out of your coat pocket, Roy?”“Oh, that’s a pack of Black Cat firecrackers, but they ain’t nothin’ but greatpertenders. They barely make a noise.”“Good,” Irene said. “Set ‘em down there beside the shed and light the wholepack. Right now.”“But why in the heck should-”“Just do it. No more questions. Now.”“What if Old Lady Lewis comes out?”“Roooy, that’s a question! Anyhow, she’d have already been out by now ifshe was home. Lucky for y’all, she’s at the witches and warlocks convention inSalem. Light the blasted firecrackers, you nincompoop.”Dropping to a knee, Roy attempted to do as instructed, but was unable toprevent the wind from extinguishing his match.“How’d you light the cherry bomb, Roy?” Irene demanded, growing angrierby the second.“We was in the sha-yed.” Roy’s voice was quavering and he seemed to befighting mightily to avoid crying. He stared angrily at the firecrackers, like theywere his enemy. I couldn’t take anymore, and was about to speak out on Roy’sbehalf, but hesitated just long enough for the Chief Cook to change her tone.Speaking more slowly, Irene said, “It’s okay, bud. Hey, very clever of youreferencing the Platters song like that.” Presto, the harshness in Irene’s voicedisappeared; Roy’s aggrieved face had gotten to her, as well.“Thanks,” Roy said, almost as a question.“Alright, tell ya what. Go on back inside the shed to light the fuse. Soon asyou get it going, just flip the pack out on the ground real fast-like. They might notbe loud, but they can still hurt your fingers. Then, you wait inside until they’veall gone off. Got me?”Those firecrackers sounded like a toy Tommy gun. Roy pounced out of theshed and awaited further orders. “Go on home, Roy. Not out the front, though.Best take the back way, through the alley. Hurry up, now. Chances are, I’ll seeyou tomorrow.” Roy gave a quick wave and crashed through our back gate.“Okay, you two... inside.”I was last to clamber up the steps. Before I could close the door, explosionserupted from Village Creek to Hobbs’ Drugs. Big Tom chimed in, tolling themidnight hour. Precisely two minutes later, the phone rang. After staring at eachother briefly, Irene and I began laughing uncontrollably. Mama was as predictableas a toast on the threshold of New Year.Zack answered the call and we could all hear Mama’s shout of, “HappyNew Year!” We ran to the extension phones. It became obvious that our mama,a 99.88% teetotaler, had imbibed a bit of bubbly. She must have done somepractice toasting in preparation for the big one at midnight. Mama wanted to talkto Danny, Pammy and “Slusie,” wondering why they were in bed at the “shankof the evening.”Dad got on the phone and greeted us with a second rousing “Happy NewYear.” After hearing us say everything was fine at home, Dad said they wouldstick around the celebration another half hour or so.Irene said, “Super. We’re going to bed. Oh, by the way, Daddy, if you runinto a sulfuric smell in the back yard near the shed, that’s where Roy shot offsome firecrackers. G’night.” And, on that occasion, no white lie was necessary,since Roy had done as Irene described, the fact he’d set off a cherry bomb in theshed, notwithstanding.We did go straight to bed. Any explanation for our baby-sitting shortcomingswould have to be conjured up the next morning, after our brains were rejuvenated.I slipped on my thickest flannel pajamas and crawled under the covers. I felt badwhen I thought about the name I had called Roy – not “pusillanimous.” I didn’teven know what that meant, but I knew it could not be vulgar, or Grandaddywould not have used it in my presence. It was the other thing – Lucifer. Thatwas not Roy’s middle name. I hadn’t a notion what it was, but surely not that. Iinstinctively threw in a middle name to make my anger clear. In my first prayersof 1956, I asked God’s forgiveness for my name-calling. My last request thatlate, winter night involved the following morning. I begged Him to give Mamaand Dad an overpowering urge to sleep in.

4An invisible sun arose the next morning, as heavy, billowing mountainsof metallic gray clouds crowded the sky. For the fi rst time I could recall, eighto’clock had slipped by without any sign of activity in the Beechworth household.In reality, there was one early bird stirring – a very noisy canary. Though I’d hadWingsong for only a week, that infernal bird was rapidly working his way upmy enemies list with his persistent early morning screeching. I had hoped thathe would either become acclimated to his surroundings and hush, or I would getused to his chattering. Neither looked particularly promising.At half past eight, I quietly rolled out of bed and padded off to the bathroom,oblivious to the frenzy of the previous night. I tried to get my bearings, but wasunable even to recall what day it was. While washing my hands, I saw myrefl ection in the bathroom mirror. “Good grief,” I said. “Trick’er treat. Yuck!” Ilumbered sadly and wearily back to the bedroom, where the fog partially lifted.It was Sunday. Zack and I had perfect Sunday school attendance records. ShouldI wake him? Should I awaken everyone? Presently, a more pressing problemcrossed my mind. Irene and I had not thought to check inside the shed after theexplosion. Though she normally woke up as soon as I began to stir, the late nighthad taken its toll. I dreaded doing it, but I had to get Irene up right away. Since shehated to be shaken awake, I needed to come up with a way to rouse her – one thatwouldn’t cause her to bite my head off. I thought of something that might work.“Reenie,” I spoke softly, lightly tapping my fi ngers on her shoulder. “Reenie...cherry bomb... toilet... cherry bomb... toil-”Irene lurched forward. “Oh, my goodness, Jean! We didn’t inspect the toiletfor damage. Let’s go! Shoot, need to tinkle first.”“Can’t it wait?”“Yeah. Guess so. Where’s our wraps?”“Wraps? Did you say ‘wraps,’ Irene?”“Yeaa-esss. You know. Those things we wear when it’s cold out, also knownas coats!” She lifted her arms skyward in exasperation.“Oh, I dunno. Let’s see. Maybe I better check in the… cloakroom! Wraps?G’night, Nellie. Sounds like something from a Charles Dickinson book.”“Alright, I concede. Maybe a little dated. But, the name is Dickens... notDickinson. Dickinson is Emily... not Charles.”“Aw, well. I was close, at least.”We slipped into our coats and made a bee line down the hall, across the backporch, and onto the steps, making sure the screen door didn’t slam. The smell ofsulphur lingered in the early morning air. The wind had calmed considerably, butstill bit like a polar bear on Seal Island. We opened the door to the shed.Dad’s little washroom stood no chance of passing a white glove test. Asidefrom the toilet, it contained only a sink, an always gunked-up can of Boraxo belowit. Dad used it to partially clean up before entering the house after puttering in theyard or working on a fl oor furnace. Some of that puttering included feeding hisfish bait. To save money on live bait when he and Mama went to the lake, Dadbuilt a worm bed in the left corner of the backyard. It was huge, and overflowingwith slimy, red wigglers. He nurtured those vile vermin with Jim Dandy cornmeal. “I feed the bait good meal to give them fish appeal so we can catch freemeals,” he liked to say. The shed was meant to provide a buffer between thehouse and worm bed, which, to me, was about like using a sheet of thumb tacksto buffer a bed of nails.Once inside, we were stopped dead in our tracks. The filthy toilet had becomea shattered, filthy toilet. It was in shambles.Enraged, Irene cried, “Cherry bomb, my foot. They musta dropped a deadblamedhand grenade in here!”We brainstormed for a couple of minutes, hoping to scratch up an excusethat didn’t involve heavy artillery. Only one thing seemed plausible. Since it wasso cold out, the water in the toilet could have frozen, its expansion causing thebowl to break apart. Though that may have been plausible, Dad might declare itimpossible. Neither I, nor Miss Absolute Zero knew for sure, so we tossed thatidea. Given the seriousness of the offense, there could be no stretching of thetruth, then proclaiming it a white lie. Our being involved in a cover-up of suchmagnitude was something Dad would not tolerate. Time to awaken Zack. Hewould not be pleased when we presented him with his options, particularly sincewe hadn’t any.“Leave me alone. Can’t you see I’m sleepin’?” Zack tugged on the covers,attempting to roll away from our finger jabs to his chest and belly. There wereno rules for getting Zack up; he was perpetually ornery over being awakened,no matter the method or reason.Irene said, “Daddy’s not up yet, Rootie Kazootie, but when he sees thattoilet bowl blown to kingdom come, whooooo-eeeee! Looks like you’ll have toplunk your magic twanger, Zackie.”“Awww, slabbles!” Zack barked out his chosen exclamation for registeringanger or disgust. I found it rather catchy, assuring it would not catch on.“What can I do? Come on, y’all. Help me think of something, quick. Please!”“You better hustle on down to Roy’s and see if y’all can come up with yourown something,” I said. “If you can’t, all I can say is, ‘tough toenail’.”Zack said, “Gee, thanks a lot, Dannie Jean,” and jumped into his clothes likea fireman. He always left his next day’s wardrobe beside his bed in an orderlymess – jeans on sneakers, shirt on jeans, socks on shirt. That arrangement lethim squeeze out every cherished second of sack time. As he worked a knot outof one of his shoelaces, he recalled seeing a discarded toilet in one of the alleyswhile bike riding. Only the mule wagon would pick up toilets, so there was agood chance it was still there, wherever “there” might be; Zack wasn’t sure. Afterbegging us to keep Dad away from the shed, he grabbed his coat and dashed outthe front door for the orphanage.I removed my shoes and sat back on Zack’s bed. “So, how do we keepDaddy down on the farm, but out of the shed?” I said.“Heh-heh. Thought you were gonna say ‘but out of Par-ee.’ Always dreamedof going to Paris, but not if Daddy’s shed is representative of their restrooms.Well, he’s not likely to be doing much of anything outside today, cold as it is, andthis being Sunday. Tomorrow, all of the football bowl...” Irene threw her headback and giggled. “Why, they’re liable to be out looking for a toilet bowl whileDaddy’s lookin’ at the Sugar Bowl.”Good humor occasionally springs from crises. Eyes squinted, I shook myhead at Irene’s feeble attempt and said, “Oh, brother!”The reality was, if Zack wasn’t sitting in our back den watching the gameswith Dad, a red flag the size of a football field would be raised, since neither hotflames nor high water could tear that boy away from the television set on NewYear’s Day. From the start of the Cotton Bowl until the final play of the RoseBowl, the males were glued to the tube, except to go outside and toss a footballaround during halftimes.Danny awoke and asked why we hadn’t gotten him up to watch fireworks.Irene immediately adopted a look of disbelief, lifting her chin, arching a nostril,and leaning away from Danny. A white lie seemed imminent.“Why, Danny, you don’t remember watching all of those Roman candlesand bottle rockets exploding?”Rather than appear ignorant, Danny went the white lie route, too. Placing hishand on his cheek, he looked toward the ceiling light, and said, “Ohhhh, yeah...I think I ‘member thum of that thuff, now.”Danny’s newly acquired lisp reminded Irene and me of urgent unfinishedbusiness – the Tooth Fairy. Irene had removed the tooth from beneath Danny’spillow after putting him to bed, but, for probably the first time ever, she could notfind any small change. In the pandemonium, we forgot to tell Mama, though itis unlikely she’d have remembered, anyway. It was only a matter of time beforeDanny caught on, also. I excused myself, walked calmly into the hallway, andbroke for Mama’s room.I reached for the door knob, turning it and gently pushing, until it was nearthat squeaky spot. Then, using a technique I had discovered quite by accident,I shoved the door halfway open in one sharp motion, bypassing the squeak. Iassumed I had the extraordinary ability to maneuver doors faster than the speedof sound, without the sonic boom. Tiptoeing in, I surveyed the dimly lit room. Myparents were sleeping soundly. I saw nothing helpful on their dresser – a box oftissues, Dad’s pocket watch, and a small stack of diapers. But, on the far side ofthe double bed, I caught sight of the mother lode. Mama’s silk purse was restingin a chair, four feet from where she slept.Setting out for the purse, I tried to walk in rhythm to Dad’s heavy breathing.Rounding the bed, I struck my toe on a clothes hamper, the same toe I had stumpedthe night before. I bit my lip to keep from screaming, but quickly realized howutterly stupid that idea was. I groaned softly and doubled my fists with such forcethat I left fingernail prints in my palms. Dad stirred, ever so slightly. I froze onthe spot, holding my breath. When his steady breathing resumed, mine did, too. Itouched my finger to my lip to see if I had drawn blood; it was impossible to tellin the low light. I was beginning to feel like the villain in a short story I had read inIrene’s American lit book – “The Telltale Heart.” A tear escaped my watering eyesand inched its way down my cheek, causing an irritating itch. I refused to scratchit, though, fearful the noise from that act might alert my parents to my presence.After what felt like ages, I reached the chair and opened Mama’s purse,running my hand along the bottom, trolling for coinage. Three pennies and twonickels later, I felt a larger unit and removed it. A new quarter. Perfect. Slowly,while keeping an eye on Mama and Dad, I backed out of the room. When Ithought I was home free, my fingers – the ones holding the coin – grazed mythigh, knocking the quarter loose. I kicked my foot out hoping to prevent itscrashing into the wooden floor. I was successful, catching it on my toe – my bigtoe – that same, twice-injured, big toe. I leaned to retrieve the coin and glaredat my other big toe for not doing its fair share. My eyes had become so waterythey were beginning to drip. Phlegm had formed in my nostrils. I sensed a majorsneeze coming on. Hobbling gingerly through the door, I made it to the back denbefore the ah-choo explosion, followed by a second. I almost drew blood whenI vigorously scratched my itching, tear-stained cheek. After quickly blowing mynose, I began to get a whiff of the sweet smell of success.Rubbing the quarter between the thumb and forefinger of my left hand, Icoated my right thumb and forefinger in spittle and used them to pamper myabused toe while considering my next move. Within moments, I hit on whatI considered a foolproof idea, though Mama once said that if an idea seemsfoolproof, there is an excellent chance somebody will provide proof they are afool. But I didn’t see any way for this one to blow up in my face. I dashed to theliving room, planted the quarter beneath a sofa cushion, and rushed back to Dannyand Irene, closing Mama and Dad’s bedroom door along the way. Evidently, thebattering I absorbed during my escapade had taken a toll on my lightening-likereflexes, for the squeak had returned.“Well, I might not ‘member ever’thing, Irene, but I know I puth the toofright under my piller. Now... it’th gone, and there ain’t even a thingle penny.”Danny’s bottom lip was quivering. Irene strummed three fingers rapidly on hersemi-puckered lips as she searched my face for a flicker of hope.“Say, didn’t you go to sleep on the couch, Danny?” I asked.“Yeah, but my toof wath under here,” he said, lifting his pillow and pointingto the exact spot where he had deposited it.“Hey,” I said. “I’ll betcha the Tooth Fairy got your tooth, but when shedidn’t see you, she flew around lookin’ for you. When she saw you sleepin’ onthe couch, she pro’bly put it somewhere around there. Doncha think, Lefty?”“Yeah, that could be what happened, Davey Crockett. Maybe your treasureis up front on the couch!”“That make thense to me,” Danny said, running toward the living room.Irene smiled at me as she wiped make believe sweat from her forehead andflicked her wrist. “I owe you one, Dan Jean,” she whispered, giving my neck aquick squeeze as she brushed past.“Good!” I said. “That reduces my paybacks to you by one, leaving me onlyten million down.” She laughed. Given the number of times she had bailed meout, I was hopelessly trailing in the favors department.Danny removed the cushion, revealing the quarter. “Yippee,” he said, thegap in his teeth prominent behind an endearing smile. “I can get loth of greatjunk with thith!”“Sure can, a lot of great junk to make your teeth rot out,” I said.“Hey, good thinking, Dan Jean. Then, the Toof Fairy will make me rich.”His smirk and rolling eyes made it clear he was sniping. I grabbed him andgave him a shake and a kiss on the nose, receiving a warm giggle for my efforts.I heard the toilet flush in my parent’s room and wondered if I had pulledoff my caper undetected, though I wasn’t worried. Never could a better case bemade for the ends justifying the means. Still, it had to be the strangest BeechworthSunday morning ever. Zack was outside chasing down a commode, Dannyhad come within a snaggle of getting quilled by his second favorite fey and myparents were rolling out of bed just thirty minutes before Sunday school started.Normally, we would have been finishing an enormous breakfast.We heard Mama in the hallway and Irene looked at me, anxiety etched inher eyes. I felt a mite queasy myself. Mama walked in and stood before us – erectand stone-faced. It was hard to believe she was the same woman who had setout only fourteen hours earlier for the party. Curlers, stale makeup, baggy eyes– Cinderella had turned into her ugly stepmother. Even though we maintainedcomplete silence, our startled expressions gave us away. Mama issued a warning.“Don’t you dare say it, kids. I know I must look a sight. I’m just not usedto bein’ up so late, is what.”“Yes ma’am, or used to drankin’,” I said, and promptly squeezed my eyesshut in disbelief over what I had just heard.